?S e%i 



■ O 



)^? 



\ 



LIBRARY OF 



CONGRESS 



015 871 512 



HoUinger Corp. 




PROCEEDINGS of the 

Ceremony of Unveiling 

of tlie Monument 

Eredted by the People of 
Mobile and of the South 
to the Memory of the 

Wi. FATHER ABRAM J. RYAN 

THE POET-PRIEST OF THE SOUTH 

In Mobile, Ala. 
July 12, 1913 



I 



ORATION 
By Rev. E. C. de la MORINIERE 







^^ 



'p\ 



!K 



% 



^\ 







Digitized by the Internet Arcinive 
in 2010 witltf uncling J^roraJ^^^^^^ 
The Library of Gongre^ 



http://www.archive.org/details/proceedingsofcerOOIamo 



MONUMENT TO FATHER RYAN. 

The monument erected in Ryan Place, Mobile, Ala., to the 
memory of Rev. Father Abram Joseph Ryan, poet-priest of the 
South, was unveiled the afternoon of July 12, 1913. 

The monument consists of a square of two granite steps, 
upon which rests an oblong die of granite six feet seven inches 
high. The statue is of bronze and stands in front of the die, 
upon the topmost stop of the platform. Father Ryan, clad in 
the simple costume of a priest of the church, is .shown with 
head inclined and right arm extended as if the priest-poet 
were reading or reciting from the book of poems that is held 
in the left hand. The pose is graceful and the expres.sion 
kindly and life-like. 

The sculptor was ^Ir. Louis Amateis. of Washington. D. 
C, author of many admirable works. The model of Father 
Ryan was his la.st labor; for, very shortly after its completion, 
he was stricken with paralysis, and died. 

The statue was cast in bronze by Paul E. Cabaret & Co., 
New York. 

Upon the granite step immediately below the statue is a 
bronze plate, bearing the inscription : 

RYAN 
1839—1886. 

Upon the back of the granite die is the engraved inscrip- 
tion, as follows : 

This Monument 
to the 
Rev. Father Abram J. Ryan 

Priest-Poet of the South, 

was erected and dedicated 

as a triliute from 

The People of Mobile and of the South. 

July 12, 191.S. 

Pat. J. Lyons, Louis Amateis 

Edward P. Allen, Sculptor 

Henry P. Weiss, Elmer Maddox 

Paul E. Rapier, Contractcn- 

P. Jos. Hamilton, 
Erwin Craighead, 

Connnittee. 



The cereinony of unveiling took place upon a very lovely 
aftei-noon in inid-snninier, the place being well shaded by the 
broad and lofty tower of St. Joseph's church, standing be- 
tAveen it and the sinking sun. The hour was 5 o'clock, and the 
eKercLses began at the minute. There were a thousand and 
more spectators, the ladies being provided with seats. The 
speakers occupied a decorated stand, American and Confeder" 
ate flags being employed. Memliers of the Semmes Camp, 
United Confederate Veterans, were guests of honor and were 
seated on the platform Ijack of the speakers. The commission- 
ers of the city also were special attendants upon the exercises. 

Immediately in front of the .speakers' tribune stood a 
group of three flag bearers, volunteers in the ceremony: 

The Flag of Ireland— Bearer. Lieut.-Col. AV. L. Timber- 
lake, member of R. E. Lee Camp No. 1, Confederate Veterans, 
Richmond, Va. 

Confederate Battle Flag — Bearer, Master Stephen Zadek. 

American Flag — Bearer, ^Master Gerard Neely. 

During the speaking there were bursts of applause, and 
these were marked by the waving of the three flags — a very 
pretty compliment to the speakers. 

Special acknowledgement : 

To 3Irs. II. ^I. Bock, for loan of the plaster cast portrait 
bust of Father Ryan, used by Sculjitor Amateis in making his 
model. 



THE CONQUERED BANNER 

Furl that banner, for 'tis weary; 
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; 

Furl it, fold it, it is best; 
For there's not a man to wave it, 
And there's not a sword to save it. 
And there's not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it; 
And its foes now scorn and brave it; 

Furl it, hide it — let it rest. 

Take that banner down! 'tis tattered; 
Broken is its staff and shattered; 
And the valiant hosts are scattered 

Over whom it floated high. 
Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it; 
Hard to think there's none to hold it; 
Hard that those who once unrolled it 

Now must furl it with a sigh. 

Furl that Banner, furl it sadly, 
Once ten thousand hailed it gladly. 
And ten thousands wildly, madly, 

Swore it should forever wave; 
Swore that foeman's sword should never, 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
Till that flag should float forever 

O'er their freedom or their grave. 

Furl it, for the hands that grasped it, 
And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 

Cold and dead are lying low; 
And that Banner— it is trailing 
While around it sounds the wailing 

Of its people in their woe. 

For though conquered, they adore it. 
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it. 
Weep for those who fell before it. 

— Abram J. Ryan. 



8 

At 5 o'clock, in Eyan Place, the Committee Chairman 
began the unveiling ceremony by relating briefly the history 
of the monument movement. Mr. Craighead said : 
Ladies and Gentlemen. Young People and Children : 

It falls as a duty upon me to begin this ceremony of the 
unveiling of the monument raised to the memory of the poet- 
priest of the South. I am the only one who will participate 
in the speakers' exercises who has come here without a speech, 
but I am to be pardoned, for my office is not to make a speecn 
l)ut to introduce speakers, and to present this monument to 
the city. But, first, let me say that the project of a monu- 
ment to Father Eyan was first annoitnced November 27, 1904, 
in The IMoliile Eegistei*. It was to be a dime subscription, and 
from the children of ]\Iobile and the South ; and so it was in 
fact, the largest part of the money coming in the shape of dime 
pieces, and contributed by children. There was no organized 
solicitation, but merely a call repeated every day in The Eeg- 
ister. All help given was voluntary. The call stirred up sev- 
eral frientls to work for the moiniment, and foremost of these 
is ^Ir. Henry P. AVeiss of ^lobile. I wish here and now to 
thank him for his help. To him nuist be ascribed the posses" 
sion of the rare quality of never getting tired. He kept at it 
until the fund was completed. It nuist l)e explained that the 
collection of the needed money was slow because only small 
pieces were asked for. On this account six years were re- 
quired in the making up of the fund. 

Having finished its labors, the committee of which I am 
chairman asks to be permitted to transfer its responsibility to 
the City of ]\Iobile. The connnitfee recognizes that the city 
government has prepared a most fit and ])eautiful place for 
this monument, and that here the monument will rest in honor 
and in safety for all time. To Conunissioner Lyons, represent- 
ing tlie city, we noAV deliver this gift from the people, and 
through him commend it to the affectionate care of the ]\rol)ile 
city government. 



MONUMENT UNVEILED. 

At the signal, the cords holding the Union and Confeder- 
ate flags in front of the statue were drawn by Caroline Ran- 
dolph Rnffin and ^largaret Calametti. 

Oppoi'tnnity was then offered for placing of flowers, and 
several beautiful offerings were made. A wreath of white 
flowers sent by ^liss Katie Coyle, of New Orleans, was laid 
at the foot of the monument by Mr. H. P. Weiss. 

ACCEPTANCE BY THE CITY. 

City Commissioner Pat J. Lyons accepted the monument 
for th':" city, saying: 
Mr. Chairman, Right Reverend Bishop, Reverend Fathers, Honorable 

Mayor, Veterans of the Confederacy, Ladies and Gentlemen: 

Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; 
Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; 

It is with feelings of profound humility that I stand here before 
you to accept for the city of Mobile this memorial to the beloved poet- 
priest of the South, Father Abram J. Ryan. 

This poor, mortal offering adds nothing to the lustre, to the fame 
of Father Ryan; deepens not the affection with which his memory is 
regarded at least by those who live in the land of the "Conquered 
Banner." His life and deeds need no laudation at our hands, for his 
words and his works are graven deeply in the hearts of an admiring 
people; in the hearts of all who admire and respect sterling man- 
hood, devotion to duty, Christian charity, and those other qualities 
which redeem our nature and show that man has sprung from the 
hand of God. 

In his writings, in his daily life, in his love for his fellows, in the 
hearts of h.s people he has left a more enduring monument than can 
be erected by the hand of man; has set a nobler example for us to 
fellow than can be inspired by any creation of our hands. 

Still, the least we of Mobile may do is to erect this modest mem- 
orial and dedicate this little plot of green in his memory, in order 
that the passers by may know that ours was the honor of having him 
live amongst us and from our midst depart; and in order that future 
generations, see.'ng this monument, may inquire into the manner of 
man he was and keep his life before them. 

Therefore, in behalf of the city of Mobile, I accept this memorial 
and iiledge the municipality to preserve and care for it and keep the 
grass around it green in tender and respectful recollection of one of 
whom this city and nation may well be proud. 



10 



RYAN'S POEMS READ. 

The Rev. Matthew Brewster, D. D., was then introduced, 
and read in a rich and melodious voice two poems selected 
from the many written by Father Eyan, the titles ])eing "A 
Nocturne," and "The Song of the Mystic." 

JUDGE BERNE Y'S ADDRESS. 

Judge Saffold Berney followed with an address dwelling 
upon Father Ryan as an army chaplain and as associated with 
the soldiers of the Southern Confederacy. He said: 
Mr. Chairman, Comrades and Fellow-Citizens: 

As a Confederate soldier, the committee having these ceremonies 
in charge has honored me by the request that I would say a few words 
on the subject of "Ryan and the Confederacy." 

Not to encroach upon the time of the distinguished speaker of 
the evening who is to follow me, I will be as brief as i)ossible, and in 
what I shall have to say I shall not attempt any review of Father Ry- 
an's life and character or analysis of his poetry, as this will be done, 
and better done, by that brilliant orator, but will confine myself to 
my subject. 

Father Ryan's relation to the Confederacy was in two ways: 

First, as army chaplain and then by the glory with which his im- 
mortal verse has crowned its arms. 

While we know but little of his life and work as army chaplain, 
I have been reliably informed, and it seems to be a well established 
fact, that he did serve throughout the war as chaplain of one of the 
regiments in General Lee's army. 

I regret that my knowledge on this subject is so limited, but 
Father Ryan himself, so far as I can learn, left nothing to enlighten 
us, and as his army contemporaries, if any are alive, are all residents 
of distant states, I have been unable to locate and communicate with 
any of them. 

Let us think for a moment of the duties of this young priest who, 
at the breaking out of the war, was about 21 years old, as an army 
chaplain. 

These lowly men of God, who bore no arms, did not count in the 
news of the battle or figure in the gazettes and had nothing to hope 
for in the way of military promotion or other earthly reward, went 
about their Master's work in the camp, on the battlefield and in the 
hospital, combatting vice, teaching the word of God, nursing the sick 
and wounded, praying with the dying and burying the dead. 

What patience, what courage, what self-sacrifice their work de^ 
manded! Before how many closing eyes they held the cross of 



11 

Christ, while they whispered in dying ears of the Savior's promisee 
and His love and pardon for the repentant soul. With what patience 
they sat by the bedside of the sick or wounded sufferer, through the 
long, weary watches of the day and night, cooling his fevered brow 
and ministering to his wants, under the kind surgeon's directions. 
How many letters they wrote for the sick and wounded to the dear 
ones at home — now words of cheer and encouragement from some 
convalescent — and now the last brave message of some dying soldier, 
full of love and resignation, bidding his wife and children or mother 
and father good-bye, giving them into God's keeping and expressing 
the hope that they might all meet again in heaven. 

And they were often under fire and exposed to much danger in 
assisting the litter-l^earers to bear away the wounded from the battle- 
field to the emergency field hospitals, where they aided the field sur- 
geons in their merciful but trying work. 

Now, as to his poems: 

It was a wise man who said that if a man were permitted to make 
all the ballads of a nation, he need not care who made its laws — or 
words to that effect. 

The Confederacy having passed into history. Its laws went with 
it, but the war ballads of Father Ryan will live always. 

When the end of the war came, bringing ruin and desolation 
upon the South, and despair filled the hearts of so many, the brave 
words of this young priest rang out in the darkness and the gloom, 
thrilling and inspiring every Southern heart. 

The "Conquered Banner," written, according to my best informa- 
tion, soon after he heard of General Lee's surrender and before all 
of the Confederate soldiers had returned to their homes, has en- 
shrined the "Stars and Bars" in eternal glory. 

Had he written nothing else, this one poem would stamp him as 
a poetical genius of high order and entitle him to the everlasting love 
and gratitude of the South. 

Like the Marseillaise hymn which led republican France to vic- 
tory, this grand poeniv the work of inspiration, was struck off in a 
moment, as sparks from an anvil, while the fire of the poet's patriot- 
ism and genius burned so brightly. 

Who can read it without being impressed with its pathos and 
tenderness, its reverent love for the South, and the poet's intense 
patriotism. 

And his other poem, "The Sword of Robert Lee," w'hat loftiness 
of sentiment is there expressed, what beauty of language, what a 
deathless tribute to the great Southern soldier, who, in character, 
was as stainless as his sword, and who, though defeated, is the idol 
of the South. 



12 

Wherever the English language is read these two masterpieces 
of lyric poetry have made the name of Ryan a household word and 
shed a lustre on Southern valor. 

And his "March of the Deathless Dead" and his "Sentinel 
Songs" and his ]ioem entitled "C. S. A." and his beautiful lines in 
memory of his brother, David J. Ryan, a young Confederate soldier, 
who was killed in battle — how they touch the heart! 

Truly all Southern people owe Father Ryan a great debt of grat- 
itude, but we, of Mobile, have a peculiar local and personal interest 
in him. for here he labored as parish priest for a mmiber of years 
after the war, and his love for Mobile is evidenced by his beautiful 
poem, "Sea Dreamings," while his sweet lines to "St. Mary's" is a 
touching tribute to the parish which he served as priest. For years 
he moved among us, in his quiet, unassuming way, attendng to his 
duties as priest, without a thought of his own greatness or the fame 
that one day would be his. Here he is buried, with those other two 
great men. General Bragg and Admiral Semmes, awaiting the day 
when he shall rise to sing again. 

The flags that wrap this monument tell, each, a different story. 
This one, "The Stars and Stripes," is the emblem of a living nation, 
with all its strength and power; this one is Erin's green flag, the em- 
blem of the land whefe the shamrock grows and the home of the 
poet's ancestors; while this is the "Conquered Banner," the flag he so 
loved. It was the emblem of a nation that lives only in history; it 
represents nothing now but hallowed memories, but I have seen it in 
the storm of battle, defiantly floating above our cheering ranks, and 
followed by thousands of brave men, when it represented a force that 
all respected. 

It fell amid a blaze of glory, outnumbered, but not outdone, and 
crowned with immortality. 



TRIBUTE TO LOUIS AMATEIS. 

The ehainnnii took the occasion, following Judge Berney's 
address, to mention the sad incident of the end of ^Ir. Louis 
Aniateis, the sculptor, his last work l)eing the model for the 
Ryan statue. In this work he had shown great enthusiasm 
and even affection. "This beautiful statue," said Mr. Craig- 
head, "is the poet-sculptor's tribute to the poet-priest." He 
asked that all present stand for a moment, with heads uncov- 
ered, as a iiuii'k of respect for the dead artist. 

This touching tribute ended, then followed 



13 



DE LA MORINIERE'S ORATION. 

The Rev. Father E. C. de la Moriniere, of Spring Hill Col- 
lege, spoke amid profound attention for a full hour's time, and 
with purest eloquence, as follows : 

Right Reverend Bishop, Reverend Clergy, Ladies and Gentle- 
men. 
Our patience is rewarded, our hopes fulfilled, and we gaze 
with gladdened and grateful eyes upon the effigy of the man 
whom the church hails as her loyal, self-sacrificing son ; the 
mightiest children of song as their peer; the South as the 
matchless hymnist of her struggles and her hopes in the days 
of her warfare, the unparalleled healer of her soul wounds, 
and the soother of her sorrows in the hour of her defeat ; the 
man whose name, the heritage of the nation, is treasured in 
every home of our Southland, the priest, the orator, the poet, 
the patriot, Abram Joseph Ryan. 

To many of you, ladies and gentlemen, gathered about his 
monument today ; to me, privileged to lift my voice in his 
praise, he was personally known. 

No straining of fancy is needed to see before us Abram 
Ryan ''in his habit as he lived." The spare, slightly stooped 
form, wrapped in a Talma cloak, as he reclined in his study 
chair in Saint Mary's rectory, or softly trod our busy streets; 
the calm, unruffled brow shaded by clusters of unruly locks — 
these are now before us. 

The years have hurried on in their unrelenting march 
since with bowed heads and heavy hearts, you followed on that 
April noon 1886, from the Cathedral to the cemetery, all that 
was mortal of the immortal ; since you laid him in his humble 
grave among his deceased "Children of ]\Iary, " from whom, 
even in death, he would not be parted; since you shed a last 
tear over his entombed remains covered with the floral offer- 
ings of his Confederate comrades; since you bade a last fare- 
well to the peaceful slumber, and turned away nnirmuring be- 
tween sobs the words of his own poem : 

"Dead priest, bless from amid the blest 
The hearts that will guard thy place of rest 
Forever, forever, forever more." 



14 

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, since then, the years — seven 
and twenty of them — have rolled by, but we see him still. 

The soft tones of his silvery voice still linger in our ears 
with that bewitching charm of which he alone possessed the 
secret, whilst those half closed eyes which seemed to see things 
beyond mortal ken, still rest on us with "a light that never 
was on sea or land." 

Abram Ryan moved not along the world's busy marts. His 
footfall was never heard in those highways where men speed 
in quest of wealth or advancement. Content to watch the 
waves of life as they broke loudly around or rippled noiseless- 
ly past him, he shared neither in their rage nor in their f retful- 
ness, for the sanctuary was his home, and the altar his resting 
place. Few were his wants to whom luxury was a stranger, 
and 'MDmfort but a word. 

I would not have you believe, however, that he w^as a 
Timon spurning his race, galled by some secret w^ound for 
which there was no healing. No ; for the famed Eolian harp 
yielded not more readily to the touch of the breeze than 
Al)ram Ryan's soul thrilled at the mirth of innocent child- 
hood, or the confidences of struggling youth, or the whispers 
of penitent age, but solitude and retirement best fitted, nay, 
were necessary, to that gentle spirit ever communing with 
things of a higher sphere. 

Well I remember how in his frequent visits to yon college 
upon the hill, he would draw me, a young scholastic, away 
from a joyous assemblage of priests and students with the 
words: ''Come, let us apart and talk." And talk he would, 
ladies and gentlemen, as I greedily listened, and felt the 
warmth of his inspiring genius pass into my youthful soul, and 
kindle there the flame of noble, holy aspirations. This was in 
the seventies, bat time has not dimmed the brightness of those 
hours. 

I understood even then ; I understand better now, that 
this man's longing for seclusion, his steadfast aloofness from 
the interests which absorb human minds', arouse their 
enthusiasm, spur their activities, and multiply their energies, 
was not the offspring of thwarted ambition or defeated pro- 
ject. No man had less cause to quarrel with fate than Abram 
Ryan. Nor was it due to a sullen disposition not seldom met 



15 

with in men of his gifts which renders intercourse strained and 
communication unwelcome; for though constitutionally pen- 
sive, always grave, and at times impenetrable except to a very 
few kindred spirits, his dealing with all was marked by cor- 
diality, and his demeanor was as simple as his language was 
sincere. He was courteous with that genuine courtesy which 
loses the sense of self in sympatthy with others. No man was 
dowered with broader, tenderer sympathy, especially for the 
lowly and poor, as the orphans of Mobile in those days could 
testify, who clung to his cassock whenever he appeared among 
them, with those half articulate cries of joyous, ineffable love. 
Whence, then, was it? One day he dared to fathom the 
depths of his own nature. The poet's hand swept over the 
chords of the poet's heart, and in the "Song of the Mystic" 
the mystery broke forth in streams of melody: 

"I walk down the Valley of Silence — • 
Down the dim, voiceless valley — alone ; 

And I hear not the fall of a footstep 
Around me, save God's and my own; 

And the hush of my heart is as holy 
As hovers where angels have flown. 

"Long ago was I weary of voices 

Whose music my heart could not win; 

Long ago was I weary of noises 
That fretted my soul with their din ; 

Long ago was I weary of places 

Where T met but the human — and sin. 

"And I toiled on, heart -tired of the Human, 
And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men. 

Till I knelt long ago, at an altar 

And I heard a voice call me. Since then 

I walk down the Valley of Silence 
That lies far beyond mortal ken." 

This, then, was the mystery of that self-enclosed reticence 
which clouded his life, saddened his face, and gave him that 
marked and magnetic personality which drew the attention of 
every passer-by, and cast a spell on all who came near him. 

Abram Ryan "moaned amid the mazes of men," because 



16 

he had fallen at the feet of the Holy, and an echo had risen 
from the depths of his spirit saying to his God : my heart shall 
be thine. 

He was imM-orldly ; frankly, candidly, avowedly unworld- 
ly, and as avowedly hungered for the things of God's King- 
dom, and loved Him witii a love which made the darkness of 
the world thick and palpable to him, like lightning on a moon- 
less night. 

This weariness of the world, this contempt for things mere- 
ly earthly; this religious' feeling dominant in the man which 
was the fruitful source of the poet's inspiration, the chief ele- 
ment of the splendid brightness., of his songs, and the cause of 
his popularity among the high-minded and reflective, had not 
come to Abram Kyan with the growth of years. It was not a 
conclusion drawn from set premises such as may fall to the lot 
of one who flings from him the cup of life's pleasure after 
tasting of its bitterness. No ; it sprang from the soil of his 
childhood, and may be said to have been instinctive in the boy, 
if Abram Ryan had not shown us the hand that sowed the 
seed and prepared the harvest ; the hand of his mother. 

God is sweet 

My mother told me so, 

When I knelt at her feet 

Long — so long ago; 

She clasped my hand in hers. 

Ah, me, that memory stirs 

My soul's profoundest deep — 

No wonder that I weep. 

She clasped my hands and smiled— 

Ah, then I was a child, 

I knew not harm — 

My mother's arm 

Was hung around me; and I felt 

That when I knelt 

To listen to my mother's prayer 

God was with mother there. 

And thro' my years of woe 
Her whispers soft and sad and low 
And sweet as angel's song 
Have floated like a dream. 



17 

No wonder, then, that under the inflnence of that niotlier, 
at whose feet, later on, he laid "the garland of his hnnible 
rhymes," that mother who guarded as well as led him; no 
wonder that after an early training by the Brothers of the 
Christian Schools at Saint Louis, whither his parents had re- 
moved from Norfolk, Virginia, the home of his early child- 
hood, and after the necessary preparatory studies, young 
Ryan entered the Ecclesiastical Seminary at Niagara, New 
York, and reached in that same city of Saint Louis, at the 
early age of four and twenty, the only goal which, to his mind, 
was worth aiming at and striving for; the sacred priesthood. 
He has revealed to us in lines unforgettable, the yearnings of 
his young consecrated soul on the day of his ordination, hio 
joy at being nund^ered among the sentinels that mount guard 
before the Tabernacle of the King of Kings, and minister to 
their J^ord in His temple. 

To the higher shrine of Love divine 

My lowly feet have trod. 
I want no fame, no other name 

Than this — a priest of God. 

And this he was, ladies and gentlemen — from core to fibre, 
every inch a priest. This he was above all else — 

My name is nothing, 

And my songs are less — 
They are the echoe.s' 

Of my nothingness. 
The pQet passes 
"With his songs away 
The priest remains 

To bless the world and pray. 

To his brother-priests he cried: 

Be true to the cossack you wear, 

'Tis w^oven of labor and prayer 
Good Friday's shadows are in it — - 

But liack of the shadows sleeps sunshine. 



18 

So wear it that every minute 

Its darkness may shine like a splendor 

On the sinful and woe-worn and weary — 
Out of its shadows, light tender 

And true may gleam on the dreary. 

Taking rank among those to whom it was said "Go teach 
all nations, preach the Gospel to every creature," Father Ryan 
judged that the most pressing, the most sacred duty of his 
vocation was to hreak the bread of the AVord to those whom he 
was appointed to feed. 

The effects of his eloquence are in the histt)ry of this 
country, the history of the North and South, the history of 
Boston and Montreal, the history of New Orleans, IMobile, 
]\Iemphis', Nashville, the history of every city where he lec- 
tured and preached. I can only descri])e it as I heard and felt 
it. Calm and deliberate at first, it soon shot forth into lilazes 
that revealed the spell of the power which held the speaker 
in its grasp, and seemed to move people — as he himself in one 
of his confidential letters expressed it — as the wind moves 
trees. 

He had, indeed, a very marked numnerism, but was saved 
from those tricks of tongue which are the result of mannerism 
in the orator, not only by the force of his genius, Init by the 
momentous eternal concerns which called forth his most mem- 
orable sermons. 

With an intellect impulsive with superhuman fervor, an 
imagination lyrical as the very soul of poetry, a diction of 
subtle delicacy and gorgeous wealth, a voice magical in its 
music, Father Ryan's oratory nuiy not be thought to have 
dared the loftiest heights and gained them, but the qualities' 
which I have mentioned imparted to his utterances a richness 
of beauty and elevation, an electricity which, as I remember, 
darted through his audience in flashes of inspiration. His' 
especially was a pathos which was not simulated. It was 
natural, it was in the man. It wrung the heart, touched it in 
every nerve where agony is borne, searched it in every fold 
where the smallest drop of grief can be concealed, and made 
his eloquence the witchcraft that it was, unlike any which 1 



19 

have ever heard, not in power, bnt in kind. It was not the ini- 
petiions eloquence which rises above the storm and plays 
among the clouds; it was not so much the eloquence of logic 
as that of enchantment. It was not the sword of Saul, but the 
harp of David. 

And after all has been said of his success in the pulpit and 
on the platform, the key to his eloquence was the key to his 
silence, the unconditional surrender of all that he was to the 
service of God and of troubled, soul-sick humanity. 

Not only to the world-wise whose hopes all anchored on 
this narrow^ planet, but to those even who are wont to look 
beyond it into the realm where "dwelleth the heavenly vis- 
ion," such unreserved surrender in one so brilliant as was 
Abram Ryan, may seem strange and incomprehensible. 

Indeed, when we review his career as a Avhole, we are 
tempted to ponder over what might have happened, what he 
might have accomplished, had he engaged in a field for other 
than that in which he chose to labor; what greatness he might 
have achieved, what heights he might have scaled, what profes- 
sion he might have adorned, what honors he might have borne, 
to what civic uses he might have put those glorious powers of 
pen and speech which were so prodigally his. 

Would not his eloquence, forceful and dazzling as we 
knew it to be when at its best, have been more effectually dis- 
played in a crowded court room, defending a client or charging 
an adversary, saving a life or branding a culprit, than preach- 
ing from a pulpit the trite truths of the Sunday's gospel? 

AVould not the nation have held out to one who came to 
serve her interests and promote her welfare with such intel- 
lectual resources as Abram Ryan could command, such talents 
as he could wield, any distinction on which he might be 
pleascvd to set his heart? And those lightning flashes which 
illumine his verses, those tongues of fire which shoot through 
them, would they not, if unconfined within the sacred pre- 
cincts of a priestly breast, have won for him a laureate's for- 
tune and fame? Such thoughts may have passed through our 
minds as we saw the living man, spoke to him, heard him, 
loved him and admired him. Such thoughts may have passed 



20 

through onr minds on that holy Thursday 1886, when the 
South rang with the startling, harrowing intelligence that the 
sweetest voice that ever was raised in behalf of faith and 
clinie, was stilled forever; that Abrani Ryan was dead, had 
passed away in Louisville, Kentucky, in a Franciscan nu)nastery 
where he had retired for an eight days' retreat; but such were 
ne^'er his thoughts, neither at the start nor at the finish. It is 
true, he had dreamed dreams; what gifted youth does not? 
True, visions of earth had floated liefore him — 

"In the Temple of Fanu\ 1 will write my name, 

I said — with a poet's pen — 
And 1 will wreath liie a crown of rich renown 

'Mid earth's immortal men." 

But though these visions might beckon, they could not 
lure, aiul shadows of the night, they melted and fled before 
the light of God's own sunrise. For, with the Celtic blood of 
his forebears, he had inherited their faith, that faith which had 
challenged tortures, and laughed at death in yonder Ireland 
which Abram Ryan eulogized in tone.s as vibrant as those of 
her ancient minstrels and primitive bards, and that faith could 
liave blossomed into but one resolve, could have matured into 
but one course, the resolve which he formed, the course which 
he adoj^ted — to battle under his Captain Christ, beneath the 
standard of His Cross. How valiantly he fought, how chival- 
rously he dared you know, citizens of ^Mobile who beheld him 
in the terrible epidemic of 1878, hastening through your de- 
serted sti'eets to carry the consolations of religion to the 
stricken. It Avas as if Father Ryan revelled in the occasion 
thus offered to sacrifice his life for his lu^other man. >Spurn- 
ing danger, he Avent where few dared to venture. Shielded 
by the tali.snum of his trust in God, and of his love for God's 
suffering creatures, he stood l)y the bedside of the foi-saken, 
i-pol'e to them Avho were crossing the border land, as he abuie 
could s|)"ak, of tlie l)]ersed hopes that would be fulfilled, and 
closed the dead eyes, folded th(> dead hands, and Avhispered 
ovei- the freshly dug grave a last benediction. 



21 

So the dreamer, as it might seem, was a doer to, and in 
the truer, nobler sense of that word ; a doer not only of such 
deeds as I have recalled, that win the admiration of men and 
strike them with wonder, but of such sweet and obscure deeds 
of zeal and devotion as escape their notice. 

For, when, in 1879, from the Cathedral where he swayed 
multitudes from the pulpit, and where his confessional was 
thronged with the sin-wrecked souls that drifted on the waves 
of mercy to his feet, he passed to the pastorate of the Church 
of Saint ]\Iary in the suburbs of the city, Abram Ryan bent 
to the humble duties that came to him those great and un- 
matched powers which had made him a celebrity in the laud. 
There, he gathered about him, those pure young souls, the 
"Children of Mary," and spent his afternoons speaking to 
them of her whom, in his own inimitable style, he called a 
"human solo in Creation's choir," Mary of Nazareth, leaving 
us those fervent outpourings of his heart in the pages of a 
book which vie in strength and beauty, with the loftiest 
strains of his matchless poetry. Hence it is, ladies and gen- 
tlemen, that in the honor we bestow today on Father Ryan, we 
do homage first to the priest, the tireless worker who with 
feeble body and broken health, performed in behalf of souls 
the tasks from which men of stronger moulds would have 
shrunk; the self-spending priest who gave to others all, asking 
in return only "a simple little prayer;" the priest sublimely 
charitable and sublimely brave, who passes through this world 
in doing good, and drawing all men to the knowledge and 
service of the Master whom he followed, and whose cause he 
had sworn to champion. 

A frivolous world may look with indifference upon the 
priest whatever be his sacrifice and seif'denial. It may look 
even in scorn upon the priest with his surplice and stole, his 
mass and prayers, his absolution and sick-calls ; but when that 
priest is a poet also; when he attunes his harp to accents in- 
comparable; when with lip like Isaiah's touched with fire from 
the altar, he pours forth the rhythmic strains which soothe 
and stir, then the world listens, in spite of itself it must listen, 
and crave to hear more. So those who cared little for Abram 



22 

Ryan, the Catholic priest, took Ryan the Bard to their hearts 
and held him there. 

To that most favored child of the IMiises in the practical 
days of a commercial age, his own genins was hardly known. 
He tells us that these verses w^ere written at random — off and 
on, here, there, anywhere — just as the mood came, with little 
of study and less of art, and always in a hurry; that his feet 
knew more of the steps that lead up to the altar and its mys- 
teries than of the steps that lead up to Parnassus, and that 
souls were always more to him than songs. But still somehow 
— he could not tell wdiy — he sometimes tried to sing. Here are 
his simple songs. These ''simple songs," ladies and gentle- 
men, which have thrilled the souls of thousands, would never 
have been published if a young lawyer of this city, now a star 
in the firmament of jurisprudence, the Honorable Hannis Tay- 
lor, had not prevailed upon his poet friend to collect them into 
a book. 

With the generous assistance of that noble Catholic gen- 
tleman, the late lamented John L. Rapier, wdiose presence is 
sadly missed at this celebration which he had labored to pre- 
pare, and longed to see, the first volume issued from the press 
of the Mobile Register. 

It was a revelation. A casket of glittering diamonds lay 
open before us, and it was hard to pick the most perfect speci- 
men. They reflected the dyes of the rainbow, the iridescent 
hues of the liird's Aving, the shimmer of star gleam, the foam 
of billows, the solenniity of silence. Al)ram Ryan became to 
us the interpreter of things that ])ass the ken of the ordinary 
eye. His vision pierced the veil that screens the unseen, and 
he gave "exquisite expression to exquisite impressions." 

Up the ladder of argent moonbeams he climbed to the 
meadows of space, and roved among the angels. He solved 
the mystery of starlight and held familiar converse with the 
clouds. Then back to earth he came, and in his "Sorrow and 
the Flowers," he communed with the white rose and the laurel 
and the willow branch and the lily and the violet leaves and 
the forget-me-nots. 



23 

He loves them all, but with a love that never loses itself 
in nature-worship. He sees God everyAvhere, and hears the 
glorious anthem which the material world forever raises to its 
Creator. The power of suggestiveness evidenced l)y Father 
Ryan's poetry is marvellous. His are thoughts crystallized so 
that when the light of the reader's intellect plays upon them, 
they refract and scintillate in myriad ways. One never 
wearies' of them. Some new beauty is found, some new 
thought revealed at every reading, and these thoughts are 
woven into word pictures filled with exquisite imagery. 

They appeal especially to those who toil and suffer, the 
thorn-crowned and the cross-laden. These as they read find 
themselves mirrored there. "They move in cathedral glooms, 
by dimly lighted altars, with processions of penitents and 
mourners fading away into the darkness to the wailing chant 
of lamenting choirs. But the light upon the gloom is the light 
of Heaven, and amid sighs and tears over farewells and 
crushed happinesses, Hope sings her victorious paeans." 

It were fruitless to compare Abram Ryan with those to 
whom the literary world has adjudged the palm of excellence. 
He never made poetry his profession as did Tennyson, Long- 
fellow and Poe, and cared not to share their laurels. He re- 
mained, from first to last, the priest to whom "souls were al- 
ways more than songs," and neither competed with nor envied 
those his brother bards at whose shrine the world worshipped. 
He stood alone, and knew it. 

I sing with a voice too low 

To be heard beyond today, 
In minor keys of my people's woes. 

And my songs pass away. 
To-morrow hears them not — ■ 

To-morrow belongs to fame ; 
My songs like the bird's will be forgot 

And forgotten shall be my name. 

Child of genius. Many and marvellous were your gifts, 
but the God who had lavished them, had withheld from you 
the gift of prophecy. The grandest song may depart betimes, 



24 

while your humble, low-toned rhymes, the rhymes of one who 
was truly the priest, the teacher, the inspirer of lofty love for 
trutli and duty, will echo from heart to heart unto the last 
of all days, breathing as they go that perfume of religion 
whieli is the surest pledge of their immortality. But mighty 
and tender in his blameless priesthood; mighty and tender in 
his eloquence and poetry, Abram Ryan was no less mighty 
and tender in his patriotism. You have heard it said; you still 
hear it — for l)latant ignorance never tires of ringing infinite 
changes on the hackneyed theme — that in the heart of the 
priest of Eome, love of country is dead. Your presence here 
today, Mobilians of all creeds, gives the lie once more to such 
vapid vaporings. 

There breathed not the man who loved his country more 
than Abram Ryan loved the South. The priest championed the 
cause of his God, the patriot the cause of his country, the cause 
of the Confederacy, and these two devotions so mingled in 
him, were so woven into the texture and fibre of his being as 
to form the two channels into which flowed his peerless lyrics. 
I shall say nothing of the attitude of the Southern States in 
the storm and stress of 1861 ; but may my lips be sealed for- 
ever if, at any time, they should forbear to say that when a 
whole people rise in sublime protest against bayonet rule; when 
a whole people in no transient outburst of passion, but with 
calm and cool resolve stand to their guns to repel from their 
hearthstones an unscrupulous invader; when a whole people 
for four years, submit to starvation and brave death for prin- 
ciples which they hold sacreil ; when a whole people shake a 
continent and the world with feats of endurance and daring 
which put to the blush the most heroic achievements em- 
blazoned in the proudest records of nations; then, perish the 
hand that would point in scorn, perish the tongue that would 
hurl eondcnniation. 

Statesmen may discuss, jurists may expound, but never 
will they, never can they, sunder the chain which riveted to the 
throne of the Eternal, binds the heart of man to his kindred 
and his home, and on that chain rests stainless, immortal, the 
cause of the South in the dark days of 1861. 



25 

In Abram Ryan was that cause incarnated. When with 
the guns of Sumter, the afflatus of war blew like a great wind 
on men, women and children ; when its sound mingled with 
the solemn peals of church bells, and rose with the words of 
preacher praying for light and guidance; when it sighed and 
sobbed in the voices of women bidding farewell to their loved 
ones; when it thundered in the impassioned appeals of ora- 
tors, whistled in the streets, stole into the firesides, lifted the 
gray hairs of our wise men in convention, thrilled through col- 
lege halls, and rustled the leaves of the student's book; when 
it tore the tender and delicately nurtured youth from his 
parent's side, the father from his children, the husband from 
his wife, the merchant from his trade, the lawyer and the 
physician from their profession, and sent them to the forefront 
under the folds of a flag whose device was unknown to soldier 
or sailor before, but whose every flap and flutter made the 
blood bound in the veins of our boys in grey, Abram Ryan did 
not content himself with standing like the prophet of old on 
the mountain top, holding out two suppliant hands for the suc- 
cess of those arms whose steel was aglow with the light of 
justice and right, but "chasubled soldier" and "sentinel 
priest," he went down with our gleaming grey lines into the 
thick of the fray, into the fields of blood. He took his stand 
in the battle-furrows, and whether in closed ambulance or on 
open field amid shot, shell, grape and canister, shrived the 
wounded, spoke of duty's crown to the fallen, and made pure 
for Heaven and the land of unbroken peace the parting spirits 
of our valiant dead. Then from camp fire and battle line, he 
passed to the wards of a hospital, and in 1862 we find him in 
the city of New Orleans, ministering with that same fearless, 
self -forgetting charity to our imprisoned knights who were 
yielding in scores to the ravages of pestilence and disease the 
noble lives which had been spared by cannon and gun. Being 
one of those whom we rarely meet along the centuries, whose 
thoughts make melody in conception and which coming into 
words are born into song, we marvel not that the agonies of 
that terrible strife, the distress and resignation of his people 
should have unsealed fresh fountains of poetry within him, 



26 

bidden them break their bonds, and flood our wasted land 
with those streams of weird an plaintive harmonies that will 
bathe the earth's remotest shores so long as deeds of valianee 
and chivalry will stir the souls of men. 

With our armed men had come a whole legion of singers- 
Randall of Maryland, Timrod of South Carolina, Thompson of 
Virginia, Flash and Requier of Alabama, had sung of the Stars 
and Bars, but the hour and the nuni had not yet met. Bowed 
under the burden of her calamities, a Niobe of iu\tions, a 
Rachel that would not be comforted, because her props had 
fallen, her sons were no more and her beauty was gone ; seated 
silent and in sackcloth amid a wilderness of toml)s, the South 
was yearning for the sound of a voice that would si)eak for 
her the desolate speechless, speak her sorrows and her griefs 
as Homer those of Troy and Jeremiah those of Israel. At last 
the man was found ; at last the voice was heard. It sang the 
''March of the Deathless Dead." Scarcely had the last strains 
trailed away into silence wiien again the voice rose, and it 
sang the "Conquered Banner." 

Furl that banner, for 'tis weary; 
Round its staff tis drooping dreary; 
Furl it, fold it, it is best; 
For lliere's not a nuin to wave it. 
And there's not a sAVord to save it, 
And there's not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it ; 
And its foes now scorn and brave it; 
Furl it, hide it — let it rest. 

Furl that banner, softly, .slowly. 
Treat it gently — it is holy — 
For it droops above the dead. 
Touch it not — unfold it never. 
Let it droop there, furled forever 
For its people's hopes are dead. 

All heads were bowed as the deep pathos of that mighty 
hymn drew a sob from every Southern heart; and when the 



27 

spell was broken, and our people turned to the shrine whence 
stole the sad music, they knew that it fell from the lips of a 
Catholic priest whose name was Abram Ryan. 

Not with animus or revengeful designs have I awakened 
the slumbering echoes of half a century ago. Such sentiments 
M^ould not commend themselves to the spirit of him who 
though he had seen too much and too closely, felt too keenly, 
shared too largely, and sympathized too deeply ever to forget, 
yet had trodden too long in the footsteps of the Divine Cruci- 
fied not to have learned the lesson of forgiveness. Truth to 
tell, the courage of his convictions did not permit Abram 
Ryan to take at once the hand that held the scourge, but when 
that hand was stretched out to us in help and relief in the hour 
of our affliction — the plague of 1878 — he grasped it in friend- 
ship and admiration. He took down again the harp which for 
years had hung on the weeping willow of his beloved South, 
and with a hand that had not lost its cunning, and a heart that 
had not lost its sacred fire, again he struck its glorious chords, 
and drew forth the splendid tones of his grand poem "Re- 
united." Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we are reunited. At 
Gettysburg, but a few days ago, the blue and the grey have 
proclaimed in trumpet tones to the world that we have now 
but one country — the United States of America, but one ban- 
ner, which wins respect for the American name, through field 
and flood. — and that banner, God bless it, the widely waving 
Stars and Stripes. But I could not, even feebly, have praised 
Abram Ryan, without conjuring the tearful image of that Con- 
federacy which gave the priest our love and the poet his glory. 
In ending this imperfect tribute — how imperfect, no one 
feels more than I — to a truly great man, I congratulate you, 
i\rr. Chairman and gentlemen of the Monument Committee, I 
congratulate you. It was meet that this city, to which the 
name of Father Ryan imparts charm and illustration should 
set the most grateful, the most affectionate leaf in the garland 
with which the South has bound the brow of her gifted son. 
Other cities praise him by his more general titles to fame and 
remembrance, but you, citizens of Mobile, own a closer title to 
Abram Ryan. An emotion more personal and more fond is 
awakened within you at the sound of his magic name. The 



^ 




V 



28 \WIW^5 871 -^ ^ 

very air of your Gulf City breathes and burns for him. You are 
among the scenes where thirteen years of his life were spent. 
You stand at the very sources of his sublime inspiration. The 
books which he read, the pulpits from wiiich he preached, the 
very room in which he studied and wrote are here — the presby- 
tery of Saint Mary's — and you can, at any time, call up from 
their habitations the spiritual circles by which he was girt and 
encompassed. I believe that I express your sentiments when 
I say that you could have wished that it were here he had 
passed from the eyes of men to take on immortality, but the 
Sovereign Arbiter of all end and of all beginning had decreed 
otherwise. We know not where he was bom, but we know 
where he was buried — here. In death he came back home; in 
death Abram Ryan came back to Mobile and to you. And you 
have resolved that he should no longer lie buried, but stand 
glorified. You have resolved that he who exalted Lee and our 
valiant hosts, should himself triumph in the public homage of 
a people's loving recognition; that he who enshrined in his 
verse the memory of our heroes in grey, should himself be per- 
petuated in his statue raised by your own hands. Mr. Chair- 
man and gentlemen of the Monument Committee, you have re- 
solved that from this square, which henceforth is to bear his 
name, Abram Ryan, the priest, orator and poet, should, by 
night and day, bless the scenes of his spiritual mfl||||t^ations 
and intellectual labors, and Abram Ryan, the patriot, should, 
by night and day, shield and guard and protect the city, and 
the country of his heart's unquenchable love, Mobile and th^^ 
Southland. Gentlemen of the Committee, you may well look 
with pride on the completion of your noble task, the crowning 
of your noble efforts. From his home among the blest, the 
poet-priest thanks you ; we who have known and loved him, 
thanflfe'ou, and the whole world applauds you. 



- f. BENEDICTION BY BISHOP ALLEN. 

The exercises were closed by Rt. Rev. Bishop Edward P. 
Allen, D. D., LL. D., of Mobile, who pronounced the benedic- 



. Jion, saying: 

^- '"' -'" May the blessing of the Almighty God, Father, Son and 
Holy Ghost, descend upon us and abide with us and keep us 
in unity, peace and harmony for ever and ever. Amen. 



